


For Fuck’s Sake, Talk Less

by thesweetpianowritingdownmylife



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Blow Jobs, Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-10
Updated: 2016-03-10
Packaged: 2018-05-25 19:53:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6207964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesweetpianowritingdownmylife/pseuds/thesweetpianowritingdownmylife
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How To Shut Hamilton Up For More Than Five Minutes: A Book Aaron Burr Wishes He Could Write.</p>
            </blockquote>





	For Fuck’s Sake, Talk Less

**Author's Note:**

> Less than 24h after saying I wouldn't write Hamburrger fanfiction... 
> 
> I'm sorry for the real Aaron Burr and Alexander Hamilton, and I sincerely hope that the Afterlife doesn't exist so they never get the chance to see this.

Hamilton would only stop talking to write, and Burr, accustomed to silence, found it infuriating. Hamilton had outright ignored his first piece of advice, and his continuous declamations grated on Burr’s nerves. So he used increasingly desperate measures to shut Hamilton up through the years.

At first, he started bringing Hamilton food just so he’d have something in his mouth to stop his words; small pieces of candy, the cookies that his neighbor had baked for him, a slice of cake from his favorite bakery. He even took up cooking and baking, and brought Hamilton food with the excuse that he needed a guinea pig to try his new recipes –if he got Hamilton to stop working for a minute and eat something for the first time in twelve hours, well, that was just a plus that endeared him to Eliza’s eyes. It all proved fruitless, though; Hamilton inhaled the food like it was going to be taken from him, and started rambling the moment the plate was empty.

It wasn’t enough. So Burr started bringing him books alongside with the food, and perhaps that way he would stop hearing Hamilton’s endless chattering through the thin walls of his office. The books were all thick –since the point was to get Hamilton engrossed in them for a long time– but varied; common or rare, fictional or based on hard facts, in several languages and from multiple countries. Sadly –and Burr should have seen it coming, should have known Hamilton would prove to be infuriating once more– the man breezed through the books at breakneck speed, as if he could imprint a whole page in his brain with just one look, no matter how complicated the subject. Still, Hamilton’s eyes lit up with so much excitement every time he saw Burr with a parcel for him that Burr kept it up.

Once, in the middle of a heated argument about morality and self-restraint, Burr bet Hamilton a great sum of money that he couldn’t go a full week without speaking, and Hamilton, not one to back down from a challenge, accepted. Burr almost cried tears of joy that this desperate, spontaneous ruse he had come up in the heat of a moment would grant him a week – _a week!_ – of rest from Hamilton’s words. Although, if he was being completely honest with himself, Burr didn’t think Hamilton would accomplish such a feat.

Hamilton tried. For two hours. Then he lost. Burr had known it was too good to last.

It was during Burr’s experimentation on types of alcohol and the effect they produced in Hamilton that he finally found something that worked. They were both drunk –whisky didn’t work well in slurring Hamilton’s speech, Burr noted–, joking around, and Hamilton had fallen on his ass next to the couch where Burr was sitting. It was a bit of a blur how they got from there to Hamilton nuzzling at his crotch and Burr opening his own breeches with fumbling fingers, but even through the fuzziness Burr realized he had found the best way to stop Hamilton from talking: to shove his dick in Hamilton’s mouth.

It shut him up for more than five minutes. It was uncharacteristically quiet; Hamilton didn’t moan, even though he was fondling himself through his clothes at the same time, and his slurping made barely any sound. After Burr climaxed and Hamilton drank it all down, he climbed on Burr’s lap and grinded down hurriedly until he reached climax as well. Burr was marveled when the next minutes were silent as well, just their soft panting as Hamilton came down from the high, slumped all over him.

Burr told himself that’s why the experience was repeated again, and again, until he ended up looking down at Hamilton on his knees on a regular basis for years: because of the silence, during and after the act.

Not because it was pleasurable –and damn, that man did have an unnatural talent whenever his tongue was involved, as if he’d decided that he must be the best at this, like at everything else.

Not because he liked seeing Hamilton enjoying himself so thoroughly –Hamilton seemed to never be happier than when he had someone’s genitals in his mouth, when he pleasured someone he loved.

Not because of how Hamilton looked –spit dribbling down his chin, lips swollen, eyes twinkling with a mix of mischievousness and concentration as he looked up to Burr’s face, the very picture of obscenity.

Not because the act made Burr feel so much closer to Hamilton –like they never were in their arguments–, body and soul, like they fit together as two puzzle pieces, meant to be.

Not because running his fingers through Hamilton’s hair was the closest he ever got to happiness after Theodosia was gone.

It was only because of the silence.

Burr would swear it on his life.


End file.
